


here comes the sunrise

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, M/M, Season/Series 05, Stigmata
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-31 02:11:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13965108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Dean wakes up with a bloody mattress and burning hands.Ironically, the red stains on the sheets aren’t what concerns him the most. He’s woken up in his own filth too many times over the years to really be disgusted by it anymore, or the smells that come with it. But this is different—this feels like an ache, not entirely left over from beheading the ghoul last night, and when he lifts his hands, all he can see is a steady trickle of blood from both palms, trailing down his wrists.Even more frightening, it that he can see through his hands.





	here comes the sunrise

Dean wakes up with a bloody mattress and burning hands.

Ironically, the red stains on the sheets aren’t what concerns him the most. He’s woken up in his own filth too many times over the years to really be disgusted by it anymore, or the smells that come with it. But this is different—this feels like an ache, not entirely left over from beheading the ghoul last night, and when he lifts his hands, all he can see is a steady trickle of blood from both palms, trailing down his wrists.

Even more frightening, it that he can see through his hands.

“Sammy,” Dean chokes, too afraid to move his fingers. His tongue won’t budge, body moving in slow motion once terror sets in. Through the flimsy sheet, he can see more blood near the foot of the bed; lifting it up only ratchets his heart rate even further, seeing the same markings through his feet, both dried and fresh blood coating his soles. “Sammy, wake up—” he squawks, finally, just in time to feel something wet drip into the corner of his eye, obscuring his vision.

Not tears—not even close.

Dean calls his name again, even more frantic; Sam awakes with a startled shout and nearly throws himself from the bed at the sight of Dean, eyes wide in the glow of the neon sign. “Dean, what did you—“ is all Sam manages to say before he grabs either side of Dean’s face, turning his head towards the light. Whatever Sam sees, Dean knows he doesn’t like it, based on the sudden furrow of his brow and gaping mouth.

“What’s happening?” Dean asks, balling his fists, only to feel blood seep through his fingers. His toes curl in sympathy, a spasm shooting through his body, all the way to the holes in his forehead, where it seems to radiate and expand. All at once, a heavy weight bears down on him, from exhaustion and fear, a life’s worth of pain sitting behind his eyes, centering amidst the wounds.

“Stigmata,” Sam says, swallowing thickly. He reaches down to Dean’s side before Dean can stop him, yanking up the side of his shirt to reveal a bloodied gouge in his side, wet but beginning to clot. Hopefully; Dean can’t see through the blood, regardless. “Dean, you’re—”

“Call Cas,” Dean manages, before he collapses in on himself and passes out.

He awakes sometime later sitting in the bathtub, naked except for his boxer briefs, with Sam and Castiel looking down at him. No disgust on their faces; just worry, wrung hands and all. The pain isn’t there anymore, thankfully, but Dean’s head aches, like the aftermath of a migraine, but physical, throbbing. “Why’d you dump me here,” Dean says, not really a question, but the most he can muster. His tongue isn’t cooperating, and neither are his hands, no matter how hard he tries to lift them.

Thankfully, Castiel does it for him. Not to heal, but just to observe, turning Dean’s hand over repeatedly; his thumb brushes the wound occasionally, pulling the skin taut. To Dean’s shock, there’s no pain, like somehow, the hole has cauterized itself; still, it bleeds, and faintly, Dean smells something floral wafting from his skin.

That shouldn’t be the weirdest thing about this, that his blood suddenly has a scent. And said scent has attracted Castiel’s attention more than the stigmata currently marring Dean’s skin, his pupils blown wide. “You’ve been anointed,” Castiel says, awed, turning his gaze to Dean’s reddened side. Dean doesn’t feel it when Castiel covers the wound, about as large as his hand in size. “You are chosen, Dean Winchester.”

“For what?” Dean and Sam echo simultaneously, Dean with agitation, Sam in wonder.

“This is real, then?” Sam continues, kneeling at the edge of the tub. He doesn’t take Castiel’s more attentive route, solely opting to look between Dean’s feet and his face. “I thought a lot of people faked it.”

“Only the worthy are chosen to bear Christ’s pain,” Castiel says. Gently, he curls Dean’s fingers into a fist, one by one, and holds Dean’s hand in his own, thumbs pressed to the edges of the wound. “This hasn’t happened in… centuries, though. You should be proud.”

“Proud,” Dean echoes, turning his face away. How is he supposed to be proud of this? How is he worthy enough? “Last I checked, I ain’t the praying type.”

Castiel shakes his head; faintly, Dean feels him massaging the top of his hand, around where it should hurt but doesn’t. “Faith has no bearing on your worth. Even the damned can bear these marks, as long as they’re pure of heart.”

“Sure know how to woo me, Cas,” Dean scoffs. Castiel releases his hand without so much as a fight, and Dean holds it close to his chest, over his pounding heart. At least the blood has slowed; hopefully they can skip out before housekeeping sees the mess they left behind.

“How long do you think he’ll be like this?” Sam asks, hands on his knees as he stands. “Is it—Is it permanent?” Just the words Dean wants to hear—is it permanent. Like the last thing they need on the road to the apocalypse is Dean becoming a martyr.

 “It should only last a week at the most,” Castiel says. “It’s a sign from God, that you’re—”

“Can it,” Dean hisses. He stumbles when he makes his way to his feet, Sam’s hands keeping him upright. Stars flare in his vision; passing out here would be a horrible idea, but somehow, he clings to consciousness, bloodied hands grabbing hold of Sam’s wrists. “God can screw himself, for all I care. I didn’t ask for this—this pain.”

Castiel scrutinizes him with a familiarity that Dean doesn’t understand, can’t even begin to comprehend. In lieu of an answer, he takes flight in a single wingbeat, leaving Dean to hold onto Sam with all his strength, with no more of an answer than when he started.

“I don’t want this,” Dean mutters, tightening his grip. “You gotta make it stop—”

“I can’t,” Sam says. “Even Cas can’t. You’re just… gonna have to put up with it.”

Great—just peachy. “I can’t drive like this,” Dean laughs, watery. Blood drips from his eyes, splattering on the rim of the tub; he tries not to pay attention. Really tries. “I’m…”

“You’ll be okay,” Sam says, hands to Dean’s throat. “You’re gonna be fine, you hear me?”

Dean can’t—Can’t hear past the blood rushing in his ears, past the voices in his head that sound suspiciously like Castiel, whispering unsung praises. On the darkest night of Dean’s life so far, he can’t help but feel so, so alone.

-+-

Castiel comes to him in the backseat in Las Cruces, straddling Dean’s hips until he stirs. Blood stains the towel underneath his head, and stolen washcloths are wrapped around his hands and feet in a failing attempt to keep the upholstery clean. He can’t stay in the motel, not like Sam, out of fear of ruining anything else; they can’t afford the security deposit if caught, and their credit card they used in Bakersfield has already been flagged.

The back bench isn’t at all comfortable—never has been, and never will be, no matter how many times he sleeps here. Castiel kneeling over him doesn’t help the situation, and Dean has half the mind to kick him away before Castiel lowers his head to mouth at the bloody wounds lining Dean’s forehead.

Frantically, Dean’s heart beats, breath stolen from his lungs. “Cas,” he inhales, only to feel Castiel’s fingers curl around the base of his skull, tipping his head back. Those same lips caress him again, so close to a kiss but not quite, sucking the blood away and leaving behind the faint tingle of Grace. “Cas, you—”

Castiel shushes him, laving another kiss to Dean’s temple; the flat of his tongue does wonders for Dean’s libido, and any other time, he would entertain that thought, if an Angel weren’t the one cleaning his wounds. “Two days,” Castiel whispers, switching sides. Dean tilts his head just so, cheeks burning as he lets Castiel touch him, caress him in ways no one has in months, maybe years. Tender, like Dean is something holy. “Two days, and you’ve done nothing but complain about this.”

“Because it hurts,” Dean hisses, but without malice. With his free hand, Castiel palms over the gash on Dean’s side; this one, thankfully, stopped bleeding yesterday, leaving behind just a gnarled slice in his abdomen, neither healing nor festering. “I can’t drive, I can’t go out in public—I can’t even sleep, Cas. I’m tired, and this—”

“It’s inconvenient, yes,” Castiel admits. He pulls away just briefly, and Dean can see blood on his lips in the lamplight. “You’re the only man who’s taken this as anything but a miracle. You don’t feel you deserve it.”

Dean laughs out of spite. “Have you met me? You keep saying shit like this, like I’m… pure, or whatever, like I’m supposed to believe that. There’s nothing good in me, man, just look.”

“I’ve seen you at your basest,” Castiel retorts, cobalt eyes narrowed. Rearing back, he takes one of Dean’s hands and unwraps it, adding, “and there’s nothing abhorrent about you. Your soul is the purest I’ve seen, that my siblings have ever witnessed.” The rag comes free in his grasp, and Castiel draws Dean’s bloodied fingers to his lips, kissing along the digits, open mouthed with no finesse. _Feeding_ , Dean thinks, his stomach twisting. Castiel is feeding off of him, drawing honeyed blood onto his tongue without a second thought. “There was a reason I raised you. A reason you fail to grasp.”

“Sure ’s hell’s got nothing to do with this,” Dean slurs, head thrown back. Castiel sucks kisses into the meat of his palm, heated yet somehow cleansing. “Why me?” he asks, brittle. Only then does Castiel stop; still, he cradles Dean’s wrist, thumb pressed over his pulse point. “Out of everyone… Why me?”

Castiel’s kiss tastes like blood, lips every bit the temptation Dean always feared. That doesn’t stop Dean from clinging to him, though, wounded hand to the back of Castiel’s head and gripping his hair tight. “You are holy,” Castiel praises, repeating the word with each kiss, every nip to Dean’s lower lip. “The most brilliant of my Father’s creations.”

“Stop lying,” Dean begs. Castiel returns his attentions to Dean’s abandoned hand, repeating the same treatment and sucking Dean’s fingers into his mouth. Scalding, his tongue slips between two, and Dean gasps, willing himself calm. “Cas…”

“I’d never lie to you,” Castiel soothes. “Let me prove it to you.”

It may be out of desperation—for touch, for acceptance, even to soothe his need for physical intimacy—but Dean lets Castiel closer, lets Castiel touch him in ways no one has, lets Castiel kiss him with blood on his lips and love flowing from his tongue. And in the morning light, with the windows still fogged from the humidity both outside and in, Dean clings to the Angel wedged into the seat, Castiel exhaling heatedly against his collar.

Blood stains the towel and patches of Castiel’s skin, most notably along his spine, but Dean can’t bring himself to care, not with Castiel in his arms, Castiel kissing him, tongue sliding against his own.

On the third day, Dean looked into the eyes of an Angel, and accepted everything he saw there—and loved him for it, flaws and all.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no explanation for this, whoops. I've been struggling mentally for a bit and I tossed out about three DCBB plots before I found one, and I STILL ended up writing a short piece. I could've made this a bit longer but I feel like I should post something, so maybe one day I'll expand on this a bit? Who knows!
> 
> Title is from the Darius Rucker song, "Another Night With You."
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
